


The Potty Incident

by way1203



Series: The DI, the Iceman, and Imogen [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babysitter Sherlock Holmes, Babysitting, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Parenthood, Parentlock, Paternal Lestrade, Poor Lestrade, Protective Lestrade, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Uncle Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9293612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/way1203/pseuds/way1203
Summary: With Lestrade still at work, the nanny out sick, and an important meeting minutes away, Mycroft turns to Sherlock to babysit Imogen. Sherlock reluctantly agrees. It shouldn't be too difficult, his niece is only a toddler and John will be home soon. What's the worst that could happen?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not the best, but another one popped into my head. Thank you so much for your kudos on Practice and Patience. I hope you all enjoy Sherlock's adventures in babysitting.

"Look at you, all domestic."  
  
Sherlock's smirk made Mycroft roll his eyes. The elder Holmes shifted Imogen's ladybug backpack on his shoulder and adjusted his hold on her hand. Sherlock glanced down at his niece. Imogen stared up at him with eyes that reminded him a bit too much of the detective inspector's. She wore a purple checkered pinafore dress with a white cap sleeve blouse underneath, white tights, and black Mary Jane's. Her deep ginger hair was pulled back into French braided pigtails. Imogen popped her thumb into her mouth and Sherlock made a mental note to keep her away from the chemicals on the kitchen table.  
  
"Sherlock, please." Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. "You owe me a favor. Actually, you owe me several. Those will have to wait for another day. For now, I need you to look after Imogen for a few hours."  
  
"What about your nanny?"  
  
"The nanny is ill."  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Anthea?"  
  
"Preoccupied."  
  
"Grant?"  
  
Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. After taking a calming breath, he replied, "My husband's name is Greg. He will pick up Imogen later this evening. I cannot be late. Please look after her. If any harm—"  
  
"Do you think me the type?" Sherlock made a face. "Honestly, brother mine. She's a child."  
  
"Please take care of her until Gregory collects her."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Thank you." Mycroft set Imogen's backpack on the floor, then crouched down before her. "Sweetheart, Daddy has a meeting with some very important people. Be a good girl for Uncle Sherlock until Da arrives. Understand?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I love you."  
  
"Daddy, love you!"   
  
He kissed her temple and stood. "I fed Imogen. I also placed pajamas and a few other important items in her backpack. Her bedtime is at 19:00. Do not get her off schedule. Greg should arrive by 20:00."  
  
As Mycroft left, Sherlock returned to his violin. John would be back soon enough and could look after his niece for him. He was much better with children anyway. Better still, Mrs. Hudson would be in and out. She could entertain her. Imogen was two and Sherlock still wasn't sure about how to care for children. Well, actually, he _did_ know how to care for children. He knew facts and other things he'd read in books. But as for being the caring, warm, fuzzy, lovable uncle, that bit came hard to the detective. Sherlock glanced up from his sheet music. Imogen still stood in the doorway.   
  
"Why don't you come sit down? You have some time until Mycroft wants you to go to bed." Sherlock used his bow to point at John's chair.  
  
Imogen shook her head. He noticed she had her right leg crossed over her left and her face had contorted into a pained expression.  
  
"What's wrong? Why are you standing like that?"  
  
She shifted from one foot to another. "I go potty."  
  
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "Oh. Well, you can go alone, can't you?"  
  
"I wee!"  
  
He looked her over and deduced that he had about thirty seconds to get her on the toilet before she wet herself. Mycroft would surely let him have it if she soiled her clothes because of him. Sherlock darted across the room and scooped Imogen up. With his hands beneath her armpits, he held her out in front of him as he rushed her through the kitchen to the bathroom. Once there, he set her on her feet. Imogen pulled at her tights. He noticed the zipper and buttons on her dress just as she shut the door in his face. Could toddlers who were two years and eight months old undo buttons and zippers by themselves?   
  
"Imogen," he called, "do you need help?"  
  
"No-no."  
  
Sherlock turned to go back to his violin when Imogen squealed. He burst into the bathroom to find his niece crying, her bottom in the toilet, her arms, legs, and head sticking out of the bowl. He'd made the mistake of leaving the seat up. Sherlock made quick work of pulling Imogen out. Not only was she soaking wet with toilet water, but she'd also soiled herself during the fall. He swore and tried to calm her down. Imogen wailed loudly. He searched her over for injuries. Realization struck him causing his stomach to clench. There was no denying it. Lestrade and Mycroft were going to kill him when they found out what'd happened. 

* * *

  
"You let her go to the bathroom by herself?"  
  
"Yes," said Sherlock defensively. "Imogen said 'no' when I asked if she needed help."  
  
"She's going through a phase right now where she says 'no' to just about anything people ask her with an upward inflection."

"Why would she do that?"

Greg rubbed his eyes. He didn't even know where to begin. He was beyond furious at this point and still couldn't get his head around the fact that his daughter had fallen in the toilet. "You're lucky she didn't drown! You don't leave a child her age alone in the bathroom. You didn't even check to make sure the seat was down."   
  
"Stop overreacting. How was I supposed to know it was up?"  
  
"It's your flat!"  
  
"John lives here, too!"  
  
The DI took a breath. He glanced at the sofa where Imogen slept to ensure she didn't rouse from their voice level. He was thankful in that moment that she had grown to be a heavy sleeper. It took every fibre of Greg's being to stop himself from screaming at the consulting detective. She'd been doing so well with potty training. Now, he feared, this incident would set her back. At least Sherlock called Mycroft and informed him of what happened. The British Government was quite terse at this news. G _ive her a bath. Do not leave her unattended again. We will speak later._ That was all. The younger Holmes did what was requested, knowing full well that there was a storm coming for him the next time he spoke to his brother.    
  
"I apologize, Lestrade," said Sherlock. "She shut the door in my face before I could check to see if the seat was down."  
  
Greg scoffed. "Are you serio—You're an adult, she's two! If she shuts the door in your face, you open it and check to make sure the seat is down, and supervise so she doesn't fall in and hurt herself."  
  
"Why didn't you teach her to check before she sits?"  
  
The older man rubbed his temples and let out another calming breath.  
  
Mrs. Hudson entered the flat. "What's with all the shouting? Hello, Greg. How's Imogen?"  
  
"Alive, thank goodness."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Sherlock let her go to the bathroom alone and she fell in the toilet."  
  
" _Oh, Sherlock_. I had a friend whose son drowned that way. They left him unattended in the bath for a quick second, and when they came back he was gone." Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "It was so sad and unexpected. You _always_ should plan for the unexpected when you're dealing with little ones."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
The younger Holmes rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. Cut me some slack. She hasn't been over here since she started toilet training! I thought she was still in nappies! Mycroft could have told me."  
  
"Really?" Greg lifted his brow. "You've got to be joking. She  _has_ been over here since we started potty training her, and I _have_ told you!"  
  
A whimper came from the sofa. Both men turned to find that Imogen had rolled over, her thumb was stuck in her mouth. Mrs. Hudson went over to the child, lifted her into her arms, and rubbed her back. Imogen rested her head against the older woman's shoulder and closed her eyes.  
  
" _When_?" whispered Sherlock tersely. "When did you tell me?"  
  
Before Greg could respond, John entered the flat. Greg faced him. "When did Mycroft and I start potty training Imogen?"  
  
"It was about four months ago, wasn't it? After she kept taking her nappy off." John furrowed his brow. "Do I want to know what I've stepped into?"  
  
"See? I've told you, Sherlock. I've told you several times that Mycroft and I were toilet training Imogen. You just weren't actively listening. Did you even check the contents of her backpack?"  
  
"Why would I do that?" asked Sherlock. "It was just her nightgown, training pants, her blanket, a bag with her hairbrush and a toothbrush, and a plastic bag."  
  
Greg opened Imogen's backpack and pulled out the aforementioned Ziploc. Inside was a pink folding portable potty ring. "Did you even look at what was in this?"  
  
"What the hell is that?"  
  
"It's a potty ring. We use it when we're out to prevent what happened tonight from happening on a smaller scale." He shoved the bag back into her backpack. "You put it on the seat and set her down. It beats holding her as she goes. Next time Mycroft leaves you with a bag, look in it thoroughly, yeah?"  
  
"Yes, alright."  
  
"Thank you. Now, I've gotta go. If I stay here any longer, I might throttle you."  
  
Greg wearily lifted the backpack onto his shoulder, and Mrs. Hudson passed Imogen into his arms. He held his daughter close to his chest, taking a moment to kiss her cheek twice. Greg and Mycroft went through hell to get Imogen, and he loved her with every bit of his soul. It shouldn't have surprised him how protective he felt over her, but it did. He'd just gotten into a row with a man he'd call a friend—his idiot, brilliant brother-in-law—over the safety of his daughter. And he'd do it again if he had to.  
  
" _Throttle me_? For what? She's alive, Lestrade. There's really no need to be this upset."  
  
"Yes, Sherlock. There is."  
  
Sherlock stiffened at the look the DI fixed him with. He swallowed his retort and watched the older man leave 221B with his niece.


End file.
